


tomorrow, when the world is free

by thingswithwings



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alien Planet, Canonical Character Death, Insomnia, M/M, Routine, Wraith Feeding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-25
Updated: 2007-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:49:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/pseuds/thingswithwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when Rodney is in his usual position on Sheppard’s left while walking on their usual agrarian alien planet, the Colonel will smile his usual smile in response to something Ronon says or something Teyla avoids saying, and in those moments, Rodney feels a near-overwhelming urge to punch him in the mouth, to scream at him to stop it, to shut up, because it always ends the same way, every damn time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tomorrow, when the world is free

**Author's Note:**

> The title, as you probably know, is from “The White Cliffs of Dover,” by Vera Lynn, which I was listening to for reasons that don’t need exploring at this juncture. I’d been thinking a lot about wartime mentality, and listening to the song, this fic began to crystallize.
> 
> There's a way in which this fic is a companion piece to another sga fic of mine, [Punchlines](http://archiveofourown.org/works/258905), but the two are not related, do not occur in the same universe, and you certainly don't need to read one to read the other. I like to think of them as the same story remixed in two wildly different genres.

_there’ll be love, and laughter  
and peace ever after  
tomorrow, when the world is free_

-

Rodney’s never suffered from insomnia. Since he was very young, his mind had only two settings: awareness and abandon. But recently he’s found himself lying awake, eyes pressed closed, uncomfortably aware of his consciousness and unable to stop thinking about himself sleeping.

Heightmeyer suggests paranoia, grief, and survivor’s guilt, in that order. She mentions, in her precise, delicate manner, the trauma associated with losing friends in combat. She offers to write Rodney a prescription for some time off and a trip to Earth, as if the problem were one of time or space.

Problems of time and space, Rodney understands. And, after three years in Pegasus, he’s getting a good grasp on survivor’s guilt. He wants to tell Kate, this isn’t about Carson.

But she would ask him, what is it about? and Rodney hates hearing questions he can’t answer.

-

Sheppard always behaves the same way toward everyone: affable, personable, with a touch of scowling avuncularity when things don’t go his way. His sameness is dependable, like his tendency to blow things up and mount suicide missions. Sometimes, when Rodney is in his usual position on Sheppard’s left while walking on their usual agrarian alien planet, the Colonel will smile his usual smile in response to something Ronon says or something Teyla avoids saying, and in those moments, Rodney feels a near-overwhelming urge to punch him in the mouth, to scream at him to stop it, to shut up, because it always ends the same way, every damn time.

-

Heightmeyer suggests sleep deprivation, poor nutrition, and depression, in that order. Rodney tries to imagine fucking her, as he always does with smart, beautiful women: tries to imagine her on her knees with his cock in her mouth or maybe straddling him, pushing him down and riding him. But the concept of sexual fantasy is as distant as that of sleep, and as unappealing, so he stops.

-

And some Wraith queen or other has John and Ronon prostrate in front of her, demanding that they assist her with her evil plan. Teyla is lying unconscious on Rodney’s left where she fell when she tried some sort of psychic voodoo on the queen and lost. Ronon dropped a knife when he was forced to kneel and it shines silver next to Teyla’s auburn hair; the bright of the metal glints in the face of a hidden light source.

Rodney’s being held down by one of them, its hand pushing on his chest, pushing him down into the damp floor of the hive ship, its knees pinning Rodney’s legs. Its hot breath reeks through its mask and into Rodney’s mouth. He doesn’t know if it’s the thing’s feeding hand or not, but the _suspension,_ the press of the hand against his chest that neither slackens nor feeds, is suddenly intolerable in a way that has nothing to do with his very-present fear and panic. He feels his gorge rising, almost vomits into his mouth before he forces it back. He can’t hold back a noise, though, a choked, claustrophobic, gasping noise that tears itself from his throat.

His gaze happens to fall on Sheppard, whose eyes lock with his, and the look of pity that he sees there is new. Rodney’s realisation is sudden and sharp: Sheppard thinks that Rodney is being fed upon.

Something happens – Teyla wakes up and takes out the queen, maybe, or Sheppard manages to break her hold on him, or Ronon does something improbable with the knife that keeps shining light into Rodney’s eyes. Or maybe all of those things happen. Rodney’s memory is full of the empty Wraith-face above his and the hand holding him down and the smell of its breath in his mouth, familiar and grotesque.

In the jumper on the way back, Sheppard is grim and silent. In Atlantis, he gets into Rodney’s space, following him closely and asking too many questions. Rodney shakes him off irritably, insisting that he’s fine and just needs to sleep.

Elizabeth shows up and makes herself useful, pulling the Colonel aside and demanding a report. Rodney takes advantage of the time to escape to his quarters, locking the door and putting himself down stiffly on his bed, still fully-clothed. It’s dinner time, but Rodney’s mouth still tastes like bile. He tosses the powerbar away and spits the bite he’d taken into the trash.

Rodney doesn’t sleep, but when his door chimes, he’s lost track of time and can’t tell whether it’s been fifteen minutes or an hour or five hours. Sheppard’s on the other side of the door.

“Can I come in?” the stoic pity is still there, and Rodney almost wishes that he had been fed upon, that he had undergone something deserving of Sheppard’s concern. He waves Sheppard in with a sarcastic lie about being woken up from much-needed sleep.

“Rodney, it’s okay, I know what happened. You need to get checked out.”

And suddenly it’s so after-school special that Rodney can’t help it: he turns his face from Sheppard’s – Sheppard always stands too close, Americans always stand too close – and grins out his laughter.

“Colonel, I’m fine, honestly, now will you just get out of my quarters and _please_ let me get back to . . .” his babble is cut off when John steps in closer still and unzips Rodney’s jacket. For a moment, he’s confused. His mind flashes on kissing Sheppard, on sex with Sheppard, even as the other man places a strong hand on Rodney’s t-shirt.

“There aren’t any holes.” Sheppard grimaces, his professional hand pulling away firmly after patting Rodney down.

“Yeah, no, that’s what happens when you don’t get fed upon. Can I go to bed now?” Rodney says _bed_ and wishes he’d said _sleep_ , because his mind runs back over those sex-images all too readily, as if Sheppard’s presence in his space meant something pleasurable.

Sheppard opens his mouth, draws a breath, but no sound comes out. Then he furrows his brow and reaches out again, all hands, grabbing Rodney’s shirt at the hem and pushing it up, out of the way, past his nipples, and Rodney hears himself voice an aggrieved “Hey!” even as he tries to back away, out of Sheppard’s grasp.

But then that look comes back onto Sheppard’s face, that look of unalloyed pity. His hands have stilled and his gaze is fixed on Rodney’s chest. Rodney looks down, and over his sternum is the tell-tale, a mark in the shape of a huge hand. Rodney’s right hand runs over the spot, grazing tender flesh and singed chest hair. It’s not deep, not a wound like the other Wraith-marks that Rodney’s seen; it just looks like a burn mark, like a scalding. The flesh is red, but not raised or blistered.

“He’d just started.” Sheppard says quietly, and steps back a little, taking his hands off of Rodney’s skin. Rodney is suddenly conscious of how close they had been standing a moment before.

“I . . . didn’t know.” Rodney’s voice cracks embarrassingly.

Sheppard is clearly incredulous. “You got fed on by a Wraith and didn’t notice?”

“I felt something,” Rodney says haltingly. “Like the way you feel, trapped in small spaces, y’know? I didn’t know it would feel like . . . that.” Self-conscious, Rodney lets his t-shirt slip back down his belly. The mark is covered, but Rodney can feel it now, the skin too hot, too tight. He looks up to meet Sheppard’s gaze.

What he finds there is no longer pity, but something harder. Sheppard’s tone is light. “Yeah. Well, welcome to the club. That’s how it feels.” The flip answer and the Sheppard-look on Sheppard’s face bring back Rodney’s irrational anger.

“Can you just fucking _stop_ for a minute?” he snaps suddenly.

“Stop what, Rodney?” Sheppard sounds genuinely curious, unperturbed, the way he sounds when talking to amusingly primitive villagers. Affable. Personable. Ironic. Rodney’s fists clench at his sides.

“That, stop _that_ , stop acting as if everything is normal, stop acting like this is just your life, like this is how it is now! It doesn’t end, it never ends, and I _can’t_ . . .” Sheppard is still looking at him quizzically, detached, as if he’s too laid back to get involved. Rodney is absolutely sure that he’s taking a swing at Sheppard until his hands are on Sheppard’s neck, pulling him in, until he feels John’s mouth opening beneath his, warm and wet and surprised.

There’s a long moment when they’re not really kissing and not really not-kissing, John’s hot breath in Rodney’s mouth, John’s right hand resting lightly on Rodney’s chest. Rodney keeps his hands on John, one curving over his collarbone and one cupped behind his neck.

Then something shifts in Rodney’s brain, something _changes_ , and his full awareness is suddenly on the moment, this moment, in which he’s kissing Sheppard and oh god Sheppard starts kissing him _back_ and their tongues are sliding together and the room is filled with the force of their presence together. John’s left hand comes up from his side to grasp Rodney’s shoulder a bit too tightly, just where it meets his arm, as if Sheppard can’t decide whether to push him away or pull him in: as if he can suspend all meaning by holding Rodney in place.

When they break apart, they don’t go far: they’re no more than two inches apart, both of them wide-eyed and panting. When Sheppard makes no move to reinitiate the kiss, Rodney slowly pulls his hands down from Sheppard’s neck, and the moment dissipates. He feels John’s hands leave his body, gulping as he steps back, his eyes still on John’s inscrutable face.

Rodney clears his throat and finds his voice. “Listen, Colonel, I . . .”

Sheppard blanches and holds up a hand. “It’s all right, McKay. Look, I think you should get into bed.” Rodney’s eyes must widen further at that, because Sheppard winces and corrects himself: “You’re exhausted. Get some sleep.”

With that, Sheppard turns and leaves, and Rodney lies in bed, awake. His fingers graze over the burn mark on his chest.

-

The next day isn’t a mission-day, so Rodney takes it easy, working in the lab until around two a.m. When he comes back to his quarters, he’s unsurprised to find Sheppard waiting in the hallway outside his door.

“Can I come in?” he asks again.

Rodney lets out a calculatedly exasperated sigh and avoids eye contact, walking into his quarters and tossing his laptop case onto the chair. Sheppard follows, and the door shuts behind him.

“Look, we don’t have to talk about it, I’m fine, everything’s fine, I’m sorry if I was weird yesterday.” Rodney busies himself around his quarters, kicking off his shoes and rummaging around in the desk drawer.

“And by weird, you mean grabbing me and sticking your tongue in my mouth, right?”

Rodney feels his face heat, but doesn’t look up at Sheppard.

“Right, well, look, it’s nothing personal. I just, uh, freaked out a little, crazy genius McKay,” he waves his hands vaguely around his head before going back to rummaging in the desk, “and I haven’t been sleeping much, so, y’know. Stress. Or whatever.”

Suddenly, John’s in his space again, behind him. Rodney can feel his physical presence, but can’t decipher his intention, and does not have it in him to look up at the other man to find out.

John’s hand falls onto Rodney’s shoulder, onto the same place it had been the night before, right where it meets his arm. All of Rodney’s attention comes to focus on that one part of his body: he is aware of every second that passes while Sheppard grips his arm.

He turns around within John’s grasp. John looks frustrated, the way he always looks when his day is messed up by space vampires or robots or something equally annoying.

“This is where we live now,” John says, nonsensically, and kisses him.

And Rodney’s confused, but not stupid, so when John’s tongue licks at his lips Rodney opens his mouth and groans and bites back, moving his hands to grab restlessly at John’s back and shoulders. It’s exactly as good as it was the night before, exactly as good as it was in Rodney’s memory all day, hot and present and _now_. This time, when they break apart, Rodney grins a little, breathlessly.

Sheppard’s hand slides down Rodney’s arm from his shoulder, and for a dismayed moment Rodney thinks he’s pulling away again, but Sheppard grips his hand and pulls it between their bodies, slides their hands together under John’s shirt and up.

There’s a patch of rough skin there, in a familiar hand-shape, and Rodney runs his fingers over it, watching John’s face as he does so.

“It doesn’t end, Rodney. It never ends. And it never changes.” John says, a little breathless, as Rodney’s calluses slide against his chest.

And John says, “This is your life now.” Rodney finds the edges of the scar and slides his palm into it, his brow furrowing the way it always does when fitting together parts of machinery that don’t go together but can be made to work.

“What if I can’t live with it?” Rodney asks.

“Then you’re a pussy.”

Rodney laughs helplessly, and John takes advantage of the distraction, the way he always does, and kisses him again, because that’s something they do now.

Later, his body curled into John’s on the too-small bed, Rodney finds himself drifting into sleep, slowly, gradually, his awareness slipping deliciously away. He is comforted by the knowledge that, when he wakes up, everything will be the same.


End file.
